


Got Your Spell On Me, Baby

by queenpenthesilea



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Bingo, Eventual Loki/Tony Stark, Halloween, Halloween Challenge, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Feels, M/M, Magic, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Loki (Marvel), Prompt Fill, Protective Tony Stark, Salem Witch Trials, So here we are, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Bingo, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric, Witchcraft, Witches, bingo prompt, kind of an american history thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenpenthesilea/pseuds/queenpenthesilea
Summary: Arrogant, they called him. Self-obsessed. Recluse. Privileged only son of a rich merchant. But not stupid, never stupid.So when the dark-haired, pale-skinned man moved next door and things that had absolutelyno businessgrowing in thewinterwere flourishing – well, Anthony could only wonder with no small amount of dismay if the man wastryingto get caught. Because the witch trials were in full force, and such displays were tantamount to death here.Too bad the newcomer didn't seem to give a fuck about that.





	Got Your Spell On Me, Baby

Anthony Stark was believed to be many things that people disdained in the small town of Salem, Massachusetts, but he was not _stupid_.

Arrogant, they called him. Self-obsessed. Recluse. Privileged only son of a rich merchant. But not stupid, never stupid.

So when the dark-haired, pale-skinned man moved next door and things that had absolutely _no business_ growing in the _winter_, no matter how many leaps and advancements they’d made in the last couple of years thanks, in large part, to Anthony’s genius (though the townsfolk were loath to admit it) started flourishing – well, Anthony could only wonder with no small amount of dismay if the man was _trying_ to get caught.

Because the witch trials were in full force. Salem had charged out, Miss Wanda Maximoff leading the way with her prissy little chin held aloft as she gleefully pointed fingers at any who she either deemed unworthy of continuing to live in _her_ town or any who dared speak against her. Anthony wondered often why she had not come for him just yet, having long since heard of her particular bias against him from pointed whispers as he passed any time he was forced to enter the market to purchase items he could no longer go without. He could only assume that his wealth and ingenuity and the associated benefits thereof to the town yet held her at bay.

But his new neighbor? A neighbor who seemed to have not yet made connections that could protect him to _any_ of his neighbors? Who had many a strange visitor at odd hours, visitors whose arrivals coincided with strange flashes of light or alterations in the weather? 

Well, to say he was _concerned_ for the man was an understatement.

And without any conscious thought on his part, he started to…_surveil_ the newcomer. There was no other word for it, as he watched the man’s comings and goings, which were frequent and far between. More curiously, he appeared not to accept visitors from his new hometown, spurning any attempts to reach out to him with easy dismissal if he answered the door at all. And he watched as the attempts to contact their new neighbor shifted from curious to friendly to confused to suspicious to near-hostile. And with that final development?

Well, Anthony would be surprised if this new neighbor survived the month.

Perhaps that was why he found himself standing outside the man’s door, holding a casserole of barely-edible food and fidgeting uncomfortably. He knocked thrice, then stood back, waiting. A moment passed, then two, and Anthony started cursing his own idiocy. Of course his neighbor didn’t need his company or warnings; the man had not reached out to _anyone_ in the town, and Anthony’s unintentional surveillance had revealed that he did not accept any visits from his neighbors, allowing them to leave their welcome gifts at his doorstep, only for those offerings to disappear within the hour, despite the fact that Anthony had yet to catch him opening the door to accept the gift left for him. It was obvious he did not enjoy or allow visitors that he did not know, so why would a visit from Anthony be any different?

Shaking his head at himself, Anthony turned to leave – only to hear the door creak behind him.

“Mr. Stark,” a silky voice sounded behind him, and Anthony froze, forcing himself to turn around slowly and calmly. A tall, lanky man was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against the frame, long dark hair hanging in lazy waves around a sharp-boned face, green eyes shrewd and calculating. His clothes were casual, but that did not prevent him from somehow appearing refined, regal, _royal_.

A silly thought, and Anthony strove to shake it off, meeting clever eyes. “Sir,” Anthony addressed him carefully, erring on the side of overly-formal and respectful, and the man’s eyes twinkled with a sort of mischievous _delight_.

“Not Goodman?” the man asked flippantly, and Anthony’s eyebrows raised.

“When you are a stranger? And when I do not know of your – status?” Anthony returned, tongue stumbling over the last word as he sought a suitable means of expressing his intent. The other man seemed to understand, eyes gleaming with interest – and then, the strangest sensation swept through Anthony as the other’s eyes seemingly _glowed_, and Anthony stumbled, somehow maintaining his grip on his pathetically-assembled dish and glancing around with no small degree of confusion, attempting to discern what had caused him to stumble over seemingly thin air.

“So you would name me equal to or above you rather than risk offending me and incurring my wrath?” he inquired, and Anthony frowned, brow furrowing. This was not at all how he had imagined this conversation would go. He started to make a flippant remark, but the words that fell from his mouth rang with more truth than he had intended.

“I would treat you with respect until I know whether or not you are deserving of it.”

The statement was remarkably blunt, and Anthony colored, mortified, but the man only grinned, delighted and leaning forward, seemingly only _more_ interested.

“And how would you decide if I am deserving of your respect, Mr. Stark?” the dark-haired man asked, eyes alight, and Anthony swallowed, mouth going incomprehensibly dry as he tried to keep his mouth shut. But the words seemed to tumble from him regardless.

“If you’re able to keep up with me or not.”

And now Anthony _really_ wanted to run, eyes wide as saucers, but the man’s entertained smirk seemed to almost _pin_ him in place. “And how many have managed that, Mr. Stark?”

“No one,” came his answer quickly and easily, and the man’s eyebrows raised, his first sign of surprise.

“None have matched your intellect?” The tone was curious but somehow loaded, eyes boring into his, and Anthony had the distinct sensation that his answer was going to weigh more than he had intended, but the words slipped from him anyway.

“No. Not yet, at least. Despite my hopes.”

The man let out a noncommittal hum, and his face was eerily _blank_, though Anthony got the distinct impression that he was being weighed quite carefully.

“Is that for me?”

The abrupt change in subject as the man shifted his gaze to the dish in Anthony’s hands caused him to jolt.

“O-oh. Yes, this is for you,” Anthony responded, swallowing. “It’s a casserole – I believe you’ve received other similar items as welcome-to-the-neighborhood gifts?”

The man’s green eyes locked on his with no small degree of amusement even as he strode forward gracefully to pull the dish out of Anthony’s grasp. “Yes, but now I have been here for some time, Mr. Stark. Seems a little late to be welcoming me after so long.”

“It’s not a welcoming gift.” The words slipped from his lips without his permission, and clever eyes met his alarmed ones sharply.

“Then what is it, Mr. Stark?” came the cool question, coiled deadliness cloaking the man’s thin frame, and Anthony swallowed as his response was compelled.

“An excuse to warn you.”

The man paused, eyes narrowing and undeniable _threat_ shifting into his stance. Anthony shivered, unable to break eye contact. “Warn me from what?”

“They’ll come for you,” his lips blurted, and the man blinked, surprise coating his stately features before he managed to mask it.

“Explain.”

Anthony gritted his teeth but couldn’t stop his words, wasn’t sure he even really _wanted_ to. “They’re looking for witches, and you are an easy target. You are not from here, and you have not endeared yourself to your neighbors. They will come and accuse you, and they do not listen to reason. You must be more careful or you will find yourself swinging from the noose.”

The dark-haired man stared at him, expression inscrutable. “You would seek to warn _me_? Why should you do that?” he asked finally, his voice full of some uncontrolled emotion Anthony could not identify, and Anthony’s forehead furrowed at the strange question.

“I do not understand,” he confessed, and the other man simply shook his head.

“No matter,” he assured him, appearing to return to himself, an arrogant smirk quirking at his lips. “You say I have not endeared myself to my neighbors, but I appear to have endeared myself to _you_, if this visit is any indication.”

The man’s tone was lascivious, and _Heavens_ Anthony wished he could have responded in kind, but whatever honesty had been wrenched to the surface by this man’s undoubtedly-unholy forces would not be denied. “That will not help you,” he said, and exhaustion had swept into his voice without his permission. And now, the other man appeared puzzled, green eyes staring into his quizzically. “In fact, it may only harm you further. I tried to wait and prevent the association, but…you appeared so unaware of the danger of your actions.”

“Explain,” the man demanded, and _now_ he looked truly disturbed for the first time during this conversation. “Why do you believe your presence will hinder my chances of survival?”

And Anthony tilted his head, confused and wondering if none of the other’s visitors had ever mentioned him, had told him that he was a bad seed and would sow only ruin. “They will come for me,” he said, the words forcing themselves out easily, the conviction undeniable. “They have not yet because I am useful, but they will. And there is nothing I will be able to provide as evidence that will sway Miss Maximoff in her campaign against me.”

And the man’s expression darkened, fury twisting his stately features. “They should not dare. I have watched you, Anthony Stark. You possess a brilliant mind, and I will not allow them to squander such a precious gift. If they choose to reject you, then – ” And the words that left the other man’s mouth then were of another language, one Anthony _didn’t_ understand, which was strange in and of itself.

Anthony blinked, confused. “I do not understand,” he said finally, carefully, and the other man’s eyes snapped back to his, a soft, apologetic smile replacing the murderous expression from before.

“I apologize. Do not worry for me, Mr. Stark. We, neither of us, have anything to fear from the people here. I hope you can trust me in that.”

And, bizarrely enough, Anthony found himself nodding, a moment of genuine honesty that caught him entirely off-guard as the movement was not words enforced by whatever enchantment that had struck him but was instead entirely of his own instinct and volition.

He quickly turned away, reeling with _far too many discoveries_ and nearly fleeing from his neighbor’s porch, only to turn back at the last second, to see the faint silhouette of the strange man in the doorway. “Who are you?” he called, his voice a mess of confusion, fear, and some strange thrill of excitement and happiness, not expecting much besides a deflection of some sort.

But the man appeared determined to surprise him. “I am Loki,” he said simply, providing his first name as though it was nothing, as though Anthony had somehow earned it simply by his existence. And Anthony nodded, turned, and fled, overwhelmed.

It was two more weeks before the mob finally showed up. The combination of pitchforks and torches sent odd shadows flickering throughout his room as he tried to quash the desire to dash to the window, to _see_ what the mob was doing. The angry shouts echoed throughout his room regardless, and Anthony closed his eyes, letting them wash over him.

All things considered, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that they came for _him_ before they came for Loki.

_Monster_, they called him. _Killer. Murderer. Witch._

He almost wanted to laugh at the last one. Oh, he refused to dispute the others – after all, he was the name attached to the most prolific weapons production company in the known world, so he had well-earned those titles. But witch? Just because he preferred the budding fields of science and engineering to the more-familiar field of making things go boom?

But he had expected as much. He had known that his decision to turn his nose up to his father’s weapons business and attempt to enter a new field – hell, to _design_ a new field that he could enter – would cost him his life someday. He hadn’t been sure if it would be the upper-level military members who resented his development of a conscience, his upper level employees who despised his new direction, or this, the townspeople deciding the branches of science he courted amounted to witchcraft – but he had known he would die for his new direction someday.

He could only close his eyes and allow himself the brief, warm satisfaction that he had taken the lives of no new innocents since he had discovered his godfather’s treachery and ensured that no more Stark weapons would land themselves in the hands of those who would misuse them.

But his closed eyes meant he missed the flash of green light in the corner of his room, the sudden appearance that meant _he had been fucking right_.

“Anthony,” a familiar voice breathed, and Anthony’s eyes snapped open as he pushed himself to his feet, turning towards the source of the voice to see a familiar face – only this time, Loki’s expression was much less guarded, was open and unhappy. 

“Loki?” Anthony asked incredulously, eyes wide and confused, darting around the room with a furrowed brow, attempting to figure out how Loki had gotten in before alighting on the mysterious man once more.

A man whose expression was a strange mixture of fury and determination. Yes, _fury_. Anthony didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look so angry, though the rage on Loki’s face didn’t seem to be so much for himself, no matter how ominously the torchlight flickered over his face, the furious screams echoing through the room.

“I will take you from this place.”

He said it like it was a foregone conclusion, his rage and cold, cold fury tinting the statement, and Anthony could only stare. It appeared that Loki took that as permission to continue, eyes blazing with a burning fury that took Anthony’s breath away. “They do not deserve you. They spurn your genius and crucify your intellect. They do not appreciate you as they should.”

Anthony could only stare before a whisper finally fought its way through. “And you?”

And Loki’s eyes softened, his expression melting as he strode forward, reaching out tentatively at first but then with purpose when Anthony did not rebuff him. He cradled Tony’s face in his palm, eyes tender. “I know what it is to be persecuted for daring to be yourself and not fulfilling others’ expectations.” A soft kiss to his forehead. “I would show you what it is to be appreciated for who you are, my Anthony.”

And Anthony pulled back at that, eyes wide. “_Your_ Anthony?”

But Loki did not balk, meeting his eyes with a steely recklessness. “_My_ Anthony.”

And then they were swept away, magic curling protectively around them.

“What did you say about me, that day that we met when you spoke a different language?”

“I said that if your mortals refused to appreciate you, that I would steal you for myself and treasure you the way you truly deserved.”


End file.
